


Finding Solas

by Resoan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Spoilers, F/M, post Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2682341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Resoan/pseuds/Resoan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the Breach closed and Corypheus dead, Skyhold has a reason to celebrate. The Inquisitior, however, is the exception. Alone, she must pick up the pieces and try to fit everything back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Mage's Compassion

**Author's Note:**

> As you saw in the tags, this is set post-Inquisition, so please don't read unless you're all right with spoilers - I don't go into real depth, but I assume my audience either knows the spoilers already or doesn't care. The story itself will contain roughly 12-14 parts, more or less depending on how I decide to end it. All chapters will be told from a different character's viewpoint, and I'm not incredibly experienced writing from Inquisition characters yet, so please be gentle in criticisms. 
> 
> That said, feedback is greatly appreciated.

Skyhold practically buzzed like a beehive with everyone carousing about, though Dorian, for one, couldn’t blame them; Corypheus was dead, and the world was no longer on the brink of chaos – no, the Inquisitor had managed to push the world away from the brink a few, minuscule inches, though the way things were moving in Thedas, Dorian fully expected news of Corypheus’s twin brother to appear with the same maniacal designs on power and godhood. The thought made the mage’s lips twist just barely, dark eyes scanning the page of his Tevinter tome though he wasn’t reading: couldn’t focus enough to do so.

For all the celebratory toasts and dinners, the Inquisitor was…subdued; Velahari Lavellan had never been what Dorian would consider the life of the party, but she could smile and drink and tell stories around the table just like the rest of them, and these days, she spent more and more of her time in her chambers. Leliana and Josephine had tried on separate occasions to coerce her down to join the festivities, and thus far, neither had succeeded. Varric had talked on more than one occasion of trying to do so himself, though his step would falter the moment he stepped away from his fireplace, and his expression would turn just a bit uncertain.

It was not lost on anyone in Skyhold  _why_  the Inquisitor was acting as she was; not two seconds after Corypheus’s defeat, and Solas was gone in the blink of an eye. Perhaps they didn’t get on like best friends, but Velahari was the closest thing he possessed to one, and without the quiet elf, she seemed so very depressed.

The book snapped closed in his hands without Dorian even realizing, and though he sighed he stood from his chair and set the book onto the table just next to it, he already knew exactly what he would do even if he’d never been good with crying women. He blanched at the thought of trying to comfort a sobbing elf; of course, that was what he assumed: Velahari had never cried openly, though the loss of a loved one was never easy.

Dorian took a moment to brush the imaginary dust from his robes, raked a few fingers through his hair and smoothed down his mustache until he smiled at nothing in particular. He waved a friendly wave at Fiona, the leader of the southern rebel mages, and though the elf eyed him just a bit warily – no doubt because of his previous associations with Magister Alexius – he did nothing but smile brightly, as though they were the best of friends.

The look on her face as he strolled out of the room and turned towards the staircase made his smile turn into a smirk, and he turned to look over at Varric momentarily before inclining his head in a tacit hello. It was a greeting that was hastily reciprocated – Varric seemed to be scribbling something, and Dorian had to resist the urge to shudder at the thought of more  _Swords and Shields_  that Cassandra somehow enjoyed. A few pairs of eyes watched as he strolled up the hall and towards the throne, now empty, though it usually was; Velahari rarely had to judge anyone. The Andrastian statue making up the back of the chair was more than a little gaudy, and not for the first time since leaving Tevinter, Dorian felt as though it were especially scrutinizing him for being what he was,  _who_  he was, and the customs and religion of his homeland.

The door to the Inquisitor’s chambers were open, as they always were, and though Dorian’s steps never faltered, he just then realized he had absolutely no idea what to say to his grieving friend. Only then did the thought to return to his little alcove come to him, just as his hand lifted and he knocked, the silence awkward to his ears though it was simply _silence_. Velahari stood only a few inches shorter than him, deep, red hair up and bound in an intricate twist, her face curiously free of the Dalish tattoos he knew had been there when first he’d joined the Inquisition. Her skin was paler than average, though from a quick sweep across her features, he was pleased to see no tearstains.

“Is there something the matter? Do you need me for something?” Her tone was notably weary, but she was still concerned – always so damned concerned about everyone, and this is the thanks she received for her kindness.

“Just checking in. I haven’t seen you around much as of late, and thought to rectify such a grievous occurrence.” His smile twisted around his words as he spoke them effortlessly, and though Velahari was clearly tired and likely drained, she still managed to smile, and he very nearly grinned at that little victory. “Fancy some company for the evening?” he then asked, somehow managing to sound nonchalant and concerned all at once.

“Dorian.” It was a tone Velahari had a tendency to use when she knew something was going on beyond the obvious, though this time, the look she gave him was more broken than disapproving. Something in his chest clenched uncomfortably, and he only just kept his frown at bay. It was unfathomable to see someone like her hurting so because of a single person; pangs of sympathy urged him forward, and though he didn’t want to appear pushy, he knew better than to think she’d be all right by herself.

After a few more moments of enduring his looks, Velahari finally sighed, nodded, and gestured him inside; for the first few moments, Dorian merely took stock of the interior: it was fancier than he imagined, though he knew for a fact Velahari rarely used her quarters: it was merely another indication that something was amiss. “We’ve missed you in the tavern. If I have to listen to Varric talk about his Champion of Kirkwall in Chateau Haine again, Varric will be the one _falling_   _from grace_.”

The chuckle was dry and halfhearted at best, and Velahari averted her eyes not long afterwards before settling against her desk where various reports and missives remained unopened and set aside in a furious frenzy – as though she’d been…Dorian promptly lost his smile, lips pursing. “He must not understand what he’s left behind, Inquisitor,” Dorian finally murmured, expression sympathetic.

The Inquisitor had stiffened noticeably, shoulders squared and hands balling into fists on her thighs; “Do you think he’ll ever come back, Dorian?” she finally asked, tone brittle and eyes steadfastly on the floor. The air he’d been holding in slowly flowed out, his shoulders fell and he sighed an uncharacteristic sigh; helpless was not a feeling he liked to experience, and though he knew whatever he might say would give her heart or tear her down, he couldn’t lie to her: he respected her too much, and cared too much about her well-being. Accepting his absence would eventually help her to get over the loss, wouldn’t it? Or was that an asshole-thing to say?

“I don’t know,” Dorian finally answered with a shrug of his shoulders, and the surprise on Velahari’s face was obvious as her head snapped up. “But, you do have friends around here, you know. Friends who don’t like to see you moping in your chambers, and who want to see your face to make sure you’re alive and everything once in a while.” A chuckle had puncuated the end of his statement, and the smile that came over the Inquisitor’s face was more genuine.

“Thanks.” It wasn’t much, Dorian knew – he was no Solas, but he was her friend, and at the end of the day, he wasn’t about to up and leave with no warning whatsoever. “I…I think I’ll come out tonight. Maybe a drink at the tavern. Varric can regale us with more Hawke stories.” Velahari smiled a little deeply then, and all Dorian could do was laugh and nod, dark eyes warm as they looked over at her. How on earth had he managed to do  _that_?

“Sounds like a plan, Inquisitor. Though I’d be much more interested in watching your Commander lose Wicked Grace to your Ambassador again.” Both strolled out of Velahari’s chambers arm in arm and with laughter on their lips.


	2. Not Who You Wanted

Varric peered down at the piece of parchment, lips not quite a frown though his brow was creased and it took all his effort not to tap the end of his quill against the piece – it would blot all the ink, and he’d be forced to start all over again. Sometimes it was surprising that he wrote for pleasure, considering how many missives and letters he had to answer and send in a given day; Bianca had uncharacteristically sent him one just after Corypheus’s defeat. He’d been able to tell from the opening sentence she was apologizing, but even then, part of him was just a bit on the frustrated side. It wasn’t just Bianca though.

Amber eyes lifted from the parchment to glance instead at the door just off to his left; not so long ago an elven mage had called that chamber home, and now…it was notably empty. Varric had been there, when Corypheus had been defeated, but he’d only heard snippets of the brief conversation Solas had had with the Inquisitor before disappearing into what seemed like thin air. With a quiet albeit frustrated sound, Varric set his quill down next to the parchment and leaned back in his chair, lips pursing and eyes fluttering shut.

He thought he’d gone through all his shit with Hawke, and with Cassandra when she’d first appeared in Kirkwall, but no; the damned _sky_  had opened and let loose flocks of demons, and even then, he’d stayed to help the damage he felt at least somewhat responsible for. What he hadn’t counted on was befriending so many in the Inquisition, and its leader as well; she was an elf, not unlike Hawke in her compassion and kindness, and Varric knew probably better than most in Skyhold just how many would willingly lay down their lives in her name or in her protection. Perhaps that’s why it was so unnerving to see her…or, rather,  _not_  see her for days when before she’d wander, stop and make light conversation, or ensure no one needed anything.

After a few more moments, Varric stood and stretched with a quiet groan; he had a vague, almost hopeful anticipation that Dorian would succeed where Nightingale and Ruffles had failed, and if so, he needed to be prepared. Josephine was the first person he headed for, and though he didn’t step too far into her room, her ears were perceptive to the subtle shifts of sounds, and her head lifted from a missive of her own when the door opened. She arched a dark, perfectly-manicured eyebrow in a tacit inquiry, and Varric explained hastily – there was no telling how long Dorian would be, and there were others he needed to goad into coming to the tavern. Josephine smiled brightly, the first time in days, and agreed graciously, just as Varric had known she would.

He briefly considered asking Vivienne, though thought better of it as he headed back towards the main hall; the Lady of Iron had not joined in the festivities in the tavern ever since she’d joined the Inquisition, and even now, Varric sincerely doubted she’d agree. Instead, he veered back towards the door he’d simply referred to as ‘Solas’s door’ when the elf had still been around; the chamber was eerily quiet and empty, even with the library overheard and the soft sounds of people milling around and conversing in quiet tones. The sun was bright as he turned and headed outside onto the battlements, Cullen’s tower not far ahead; at first, the Commander adamantly refused, and judging from the very slight dash of pink that crossed his cheeks, it appeared he hadn’t forgotten what happened in the tavern a while ago. It took a little doing, but after reminding Cullen how miserable the Inquisitor had been lately, well, any resistance melted away, and an expression Varric recognized instantly came onto Cullen’s face – it was one he’d seen in the mirror himself whenever he found himself wondering about their illustrious leader.

Varric took the left door out of Cullen’s towers, and then the steps leading down into the courtyard next to the stables; the air was chilly, though he’d long since become accustomed to it. Blackwall remained still in the stables, and Varric barely had the time to get the words out before the not-Warden nodded, and next came Cassandra, even if he was loathe to ask her. She was visibly surprised at his presence, though her expression quickly changed into something more pensive at the idea; “Of course, Varric. I’ll be there.” The next swing of her sword came down hard, and it was as Varric turned to head for the tavern that he heard Cassandra grunting in an effort to pull it free of the dummy she’d somehow managed to embed it inside of.

The tavern, at least, was the center of frivolity; Varric had to wonder when the high of defeating Corypheus would wear off, though at least they were enjoying themselves – if he closed his eyes, he might have even been able to convince himself he was back in the Hanged Man in Kirkwall. Bull waved him over with a massive sweep of his arm, the warrior surrounded on all sides by his Chargers and nursing a tankard with his free hand. It took only a little adjusting to move tables around so they’d all have room to sit, and even without prompting Sera had appeared, a large grin on her lips; the smile disappeared when she was charged with the task of informing Cole of the goings-on for that evening, though she did eventually stomp up the stairs, muttering loudly under her breath as she did so.

Dorian appeared with the Inquisitor in tow, and Varric had to do a double-take at the expression on Velahari’s face – was that a smile? He’d have to ask the mage how he’d managed it, but in the meantime, it was much more entertaining to watch their Inquisitor being fussed over and asked a multitude of questions, all of which were pointedly not about Solas or anything that might remind her of him. The rest of the group Varric had visited filtered in in trickles, until the tavern seemed to wrap around their entire group like hangers-on waiting for details and gossip that hadn’t been shared yet.

As the hours passed, Varric himself lost count of how much alcohol had been shoved into his hands, though he wasn’t drunk – wasn’t even really close, though that came with the territory of spending most of his time at the Hanged Man before leaving Kirkwall. Perhaps it was unsurprising, but Velahari was the first to leave; her cheeks were slightly red – heat and alcohol was a potent mix, after all – and while people whined and groaned, and nobody made a move to stop her. The mood after the Inquisitor was gone had become more subdued, though it didn’t last; Sera was audibly snoring underneath the table, and most conversation had dissolved. It had been a good night, truly, but it hadn’t cured the problem: only relieved the symptoms for a few, short hours.

Varric said his own farewells, though it was doubtful anyone heard him as he slipped outside; the sky was clear, dark, inky black dotted with bright sparkles of stars, and Varric’s gaze remained steadfastly upward until the roof of Skyhold blocked his view. The door to Solas’s old chamber was ajar, however, and Varric’s eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, wholly disbelieving that the errant elf had returned from wherever he’d gone. The sight as he pushed the door open and stepped inside was far more heartbreaking, though; Velahari was asleep on the floor, her back slumped against the wall where Solas had taken to standing when he’d still remained in Skyhold.

He’d seen heartbreak before: had seen Hawke moping after Fenris had left, though in the end, he’d come back; Varric had a niggling feeling Velahari wouldn’t be so lucky as Hawke, and though it wasn’t an easy thing to accomplish, he did manage to help her to the couch across the room without waking her. Finding a blanket in Skyhold took a little doing, but Varric did return with one after a while; unlike Velahari, though, Varric didn’t find sleep so easily. He tossed and turned for hours, unable to shake the feeling of how  _wrong_  things had ended for her; she’d been the object of scrutiny and suspicion, of condescension and spite because of the Breach and her abilities and even because she’d been born with pointy ears, and for her troubles, the man she loved –  _loves_ , Varric had to correct himself – left with no word or explanation or even an apology.

Eventually, Varric stopped trying to sleep. Instead, he returned to Solas’s old chamber and sat at the desk in there, a lone candle just enough light for him to read and write by without disturbing Velahari. That was what Velahari woke to: quiet muttering and scribbling on pages. At first, she was confused; this was certainly not her chambers, and only as her eyes opened and adjusted did she realize where she was. Her heart sped at the implication, though when she cast her gaze towards the source of the noise, her lips dipped into an impossibly large frown as she fought off the very real urge to tear up. Silent tears leaked down her cheeks anyway, and she forced in a sharp breath before lifting a hand to wipe them away. The noise drew Varric’s attention, and his frown mirrored her own.

“Sorry. I know I’m not the one you wanted to see.” 


	3. Just Trying to Help

_Shaky hands. Bloodshot eyes. Teeth tearing into lips. A desperate and quiet plea no one else will hear. She's...angry, but not at him. Never at him. Even after everything that's happened, she can't bring herself to hate him, and that makes her cry even more. Agony rends her mind like daggers rend flesh._ Even as far away as Cole was from the Inquisitor, he could feel her distress, could feel the pain as keenly as a knife twisting in his own gut. Not once before during the entire Inquisition had he ever felt such stabbing, unrelenting pain; not during the battles with the High Dragons, or against Corypheus, or the magister's blighted dragon, and perhaps that was what was most concerning. Cole was trying, truly trying, to be human, to be more than he had been in the White Spire, or even had been earlier in the Inquisition, but even then, he couldn't – _wouldn't_ – ignore someone in pain. Helping was his only purpose in the life he'd carved out for himself, after coming to terms with his own limitations and crisis of conscience and nature.

His fingertips itched with the need to help, hands twitching at his sides; the previous night when the Inquisitor had come to the tavern, the pain had been mostly dissipated – or, at least, she'd been distracted enough to focus on something else. Cole had still felt its presence, though; hidden or discarded as it had been at the time, the magnitude of it beckoned his attention like a moth to a flame. Velahari wasn't entirely alone in her pain either; Solas had been one of the few companions who'd treated him with more kindness than disdain, and without him and his comforting knowledge and presence, Cole felt as though part of some invisible security net had fallen away from under him which left him feeling vulnerable – or, at least, more so than was normal.

 _'But Solas, I love you.' A hand reaches out, and misses. He pushes her away, not physically, but enough so she knows to be concerned. He turns his back to her: he won't answer her questions, no matter how she pleas. He hardens his heart, just like he did so long ago. It's habit now; even if he dared to lower his guard for a moment, that moment's gone. She knows, and she's afraid._ It had been the last memory Cole had incidentally intruded upon when Solas had last been in his company, and the elf had not appreciated having it brought up. The feelings from the encounter had been difficult to ignore, truth be told: like a shroud hovering just about his shoulders; had Cole been more perceptive, he might have mentioned how Solas had been unable to let go as he'd tried to do.

More than once since Solas had disappeared Cole had considered telling Velahari what a difficult decision their separation had been for him, though somehow he doubted it would help anything. It would simply bring up questions of why he did so in the first place, and Cole couldn't rightly answer; in the first place, he didn't know Solas's mind – not all of it, at any rate – and he'd never before meddled in affairs between two people. The thought that he might make it worse between them made him ache uncomfortably, especially so since he considered both Solas and Velahari friends. He couldn't even begin to wonder what his intervention with Rhys and Evangeline might have done.

The Inquisitor's unhappiness ate away at him as he remained in the tavern, eyes scarcely visible under the wide brim of his hat; eventually, he couldn't merely sit by anymore. In the time it took to blink he was gone: up on the battlements of Skyhold as he made his way to the Inquisitor's quarters where Velahari had no doubt taken refuge after her night in the tavern. He moved seamlessly as a shadow, blending into dark corners and striding across narrow walkways without fear of falling; the early-morning air was crisp, cold with frost that promised snow later, and though the sun wasn't quite over the horizon yet, stray rays of subdued yellows fell across Skyhold: as if painting it with cheerful ribbons in a natural celebration of the Inquisition's victory over Corypheus.

Velahari's balconies were higher up than any other place in Skyhold, and though it was admittedly difficult, eventually, Cole found himself perched on the balustrade just outside, only slightly out of breath though his attention was focused elsewhere. The Inquisitor was indeed in her chamber, and though she appeared wholly nonchalant from any else's perspective, Cole knew better; his feet shuffled from the edge of the balustrade until they found purchase on the cold stone just below, though his steps closer were tentative and uncertain: this would undoubtedly be the truest test of his ability to help others, and he couldn't fail – not her, especially.

The elf was currently sitting on the edge of her bed, legs stretched and smoothed out in front of her; large, green eyes were closed, however, and as Cole's steps finally found rugs instead of stone, she peeked an eye open at him. Instead of surprise, however, Cole was a little baffled to feel nothing but expectation from her; he had to focus, had to forget about his own humanity for a moment to let such a thing touch him, but truly, what good was such humanity if he couldn't use it to help others?

“Cole.” She sounded weary, so very weary. This wasn't the same Inquisitor who'd sought the amulet to help him, to keep him from being bound by Venatori mages: wasn't the same woman who'd encouraged his growth as a human being and who'd smiled without loss and suffering always turning down the corners of her smiles and darkening her eyes into something lackluster and jaded. Something prompted her look to shift, however; her eyebrows furrowed, her lips parted, and she pushed herself closer until she was on her feet, a mere inch or two shorter than Cole himself.

It came as an abrupt surprise to Cole as something cold and wet swept down his cheek, and the shock made him start in place, a shaky hand lifting to his cheek. Velahari had stepped closer, her head angling towards Cole's which had since down-turned from both confusion and the overwhelming sensation of something being squeezed unforgivingly in his chest. “I-” Cole began, his voice soft as one of Velahari's hands came down on his shoulder and squeezed gently, reassuringly, _compassionately._ “I just wanted to help,” he finally admitted, his voice small and soft, not unlike an uncomprehending child. “Why does it hurt so much?” His tone broke then, and the smile Velahari wore as he lifted his gaze to catch hers was full of anguish, though something else tinged the corners of her eyes – was it...sympathy?

“He was your friend too, Cole,” Velahari finally murmured, and it was only then Cole finally understood: _he_ was hurting too. So swept up in his own thoughts was Cole that he didn't notice Velahari had led him to the bed before he was sitting upon it.

“Will-will it always hurt so much?” Cole finally dared to ask, and Velahari frowned when he looked up at her.

“No,” she finally answered, though Cole remained unconvinced; perhaps it was because of the determination he saw in her eyes: a gleam that told him she intended _not_ to forget Solas if it was the very last thing she could cling to on her death-bed. “With any luck, he'll come back,” she then added, though even Cole could detect the lie for what it was; it was something she told herself to keep the hope alive, even when deep down, he suspected she thought he never would.

“We'll find him,” Cole finally volunteered, and the smile that earned from her momentarily crushed all the depression weighing her down.

“Thanks, Cole. I hope you're right.” When he'd first come to Velahari, he hadn't really expected to find out more about himself, but he would be more than happy to help her find Solas – he was someone they both needed, and for a long while, there was a companionable, understanding silence between them.


	4. Through the Pain

Nothing should have made Iron Bull more happy than finally sticking it to Corypheus and his pet dragon: finally bringing about order to the world after the bastard had torn a fucking _hole_ in the damned sky. The taste of victory left curious ashes on his tongue, however, and it didn't take a genius to discern why. He and Solas had never been the best of friends, but they'd spoken amicably, and the elf had even offered to be there for him after the Qunari alliance had fallen through and he'd been branded a Tal-Vashoth. Even though the solitary elf had remained more reclusive in his room at Skyhold than not, there was a certain...subtlety in the air, a shift Iron Bull could sense but not explain with words. Skyhold was feeling the effects of Solas's absence, though he knew for fact that some were pleased with the apostate's disappearance; there were others, however, who had yet to come to terms with it, and Iron Bull twisted uncomfortably in his chair from just the memory of the Inquisitor the night of their victory over Corypheus when Solas had first vanished.

Both Varric and Cole seemed quieter now as well, more subdued or lost in thought whenever Iron Bull chanced to look upon them; Red was still scouring Thedas for signs of him, though thus far with little success. Even Cassandra seemed moodier than normal, and she'd somehow redoubled her efforts in the practice yard until Bull could hear her grunts and groans of exertion when he was settling in for some shut-eye. Perhaps it was simply because she'd never thought to question Solas further, to pry into his background as Leliana had tried to do, even if he was incredibly skilled at evading even their most direct questions; more than a few times already people had approached the former Seeker: to tell her she couldn't have known, that it wasn't her fault even if it was painfully apparent she blamed herself for letting it happen in the first place. He was starting to wonder if Cassandra enjoyed lambasting herself for occurrences mostly out of her realm of control, though in hindsight, it was likely how she pushed herself through difficult circumstances, and Bull wasn't about to interrupt and earn her ire in the process.

At one point, even Krem had looked at him strangely before finally demanding an answer for why he was acting so strangely taciturn and pensive; at first, he'd felt the old, challenging reply come to his lips, though even then, it had come out stilted and oddly thoughtful, and the look Krem had given him had eventually made him laugh fully and deeply before the Tevinter was satisfied and he'd gone back to whatever it was he'd been doing in the first place. With a quick, cursory scan over the tavern, Bull was only slightly surprised not to see Krem with the rest of the chargers; he was undoubtedly practicing in the yard well away from Cassandra, and for that, Bull couldn't blame him.

When the tavern door suddenly opened and a rather subdued Krem stepped inside, however, Iron Bull knew something was amiss; only a handful of times since joining the Inquisition had Bull needed to talk to Krem about others who might have cruelly questioned his identity. For the most part, nobody bothered Krem: he was helping the Inquisition, and that was enough for anyone who might be more curious than they had real reason to be. As Iron Bull observed further, however, it was clear Krem wasn't upset – the look on his face spoke of...concern, or worry even, and it was an expression Iron Bull had only seen a couple of times on the man's face. “Chief.”

Bull caught Krem's gaze with his good eye, an eyebrow lifting inquisitively; “What is it, Krem?” Instead of telling him, Krem instead indicated he follow, and though he was tempted to heave a melodramatic sigh and roll his eye, he instead pushed himself onto his feet. Something was wrong, or at least the very least, something was _strange_ , and neither were things Bull liked to encounter if he could help it. The sunlight as he and Krem crossed the threshold very nearly blinded him, though it took another heartbeat before his vision adjusted – otherwise, he might have rubbed his eye to ensure what he saw seeing was actually happening. Cassandra was not currently the one taking a practice sword at the dummies, but rather, their elven, _mage_ Inquisitor who'd likely never held a blade in her hand before. Her normally pale features were red from exertion, though she showed no signs of slowing; his gaze turned back to Krem, and he didn't need to say a word for Krem to understand – Bull was appreciative of being informed of this, and Krem inclined his head in understanding before heading back towards the tavern to give them a little privacy.

“I never expected the Inquisitor to take up a sword,” Iron Bull began as he came within earshot, and though Velahari slowed, she didn't stop; her swing was clumsy, her grip haphazard, though Bull forced himself to look past it – he wasn't here to give her pointers, he was here to ask her what the hell she was doing, and try to help her sort it all out.

“I'm not – this is-” Velahari struggled with her words, breathless as they were, and eventually, Bull reached for her wrist and managed to stop her movement mid-swing.

“I get it, Boss.” _You're mad. You want to hit something._ He pointedly didn't dwell on the similarities of how qunari worked out their problems, though he released her wrist after a moment, and Velahari turned back to the practice dummy, likely assuming Bull would let her be. “We-” Bull paused, probably one of the few times he gave himself time to deliberate over his own words; he didn't have ample experience smoothing over grief, and he didn't care to make things worse by tripping over his words.

After a few more seconds of silence, Bull eventually shook his head; “It's okay. Let it out.” Velahari hadn't continued, had instead turned only slightly in his direction and watched him fumble for his words. When their gazes met, hers was plainly surprised, and he had to suppress a chuckle; “It's okay to be mad, you know,” he told her, and though he half-expected to see a lip quiver or a tear to form in the corner of her eye, she instead inclined her head and struck the dummy with a blow surprising from the lithe little mage.

“ _Again_.” Iron Bull insisted, though Velahari needed no prompting to do so; the dummy thudded back from the weight behind her strike, and they remained in the yard for a long while: Bull never far from her side even when the angry tears took the place of the sad ones she'd been holding on to for a while. Her teeth grit together, her hands sizzling with scarcely-contained magic, and even then, Bull wasn't afraid; he trusted the Inquisitor to keep her magic together even during such duress, though he wouldn't find it surprising if one of the dummies nearby lit up from flames in her fury.

“Why are you angry?” Bull asked in more a shout than a normal tone, his tone making it clear he expected an answer from Velahari who drew her blade back and swung again.

“Because – he's _gone_ ,” she replied through pants and grunts, tears glistening on her cheeks though she didn't once stop her rhythm.

“No. You're _sad_ because he's gone. What pisses you _off_?” Bull demanded yet again, and though her heard Velahari sharply inhale, she didn't falter.

“Because he never explained _anything_! I didn't have a _say_ in our relationship, and now I don't know where he is, or why he left, or _anything_!” Her frustration was palpable, but he wasn't quite finished yet.

“You're _wrong_ , Inquisitor. Why are you _angry_?” Bull's voice was as gruff as Velahari had ever heard it, as though it had somehow ground gravel between his teeth and spit it out with his words.

“Because I-I thought I'd have more time. I never got the chance to ask him anything, to...try and understand. I stayed away, was too afraid of being rejected or humiliated, and now, I might never have the chance again. Because I was a coward, I've probably lost one of the best things I ever had, and I have no way of getting it back.” All the fight evaporated from her tone as she pressed on, and before she was even finished, Iron Bull had eased the hilt of the sword from her hand. She sagged once the weight was removed from her, though all her fire was gone too: all he saw on her face was despondence, and for a moment, it seemed as though she didn't even realize he was there at all.

“I don't know what I'm going to do, Bull. The Inquisition claims they still need my help, but the Breach is sealed and Corypheus is dead – for good this time. Maybe it's time I...moved on.” He'd never pegged Velahari as the type to voluntarily leave the Inquisition, though he would concede she had a point: the immediate threats and dangers were gone, even if it would take the world a while to fully recover.

“Is that what you really want? Or is it just about...him?” Her eyes cut like daggers when they turned towards him, though it hadn't been intentional: her wound was deep, and it was questionable whether it would ever heal or not.

“I don't know.” She paused then, her expression thoughtful, though it shifted into something neutral a moment later. “Thanks, Bull. I appreciate it.” She slipped past him easily, her steps leading her back up the stairs and into Skyhold proper, though Iron Bull watched after her, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips drawn together. He doubted many in Skyhold knew the Inquisitor was considering leaving, and he hoped it stayed that way; who knew how much chaos would follow Lavellan's abrupt departure? Would she even tell anyone?

He methodically replaced the practice blade with the others and returned to the tavern, only able to mask his troubles from his former training with the Ben-Hassrath. “Krem.” Bull called his lieutenant's attention, and it took the young man only a moment to turn. “Go tell Red we have a... situation. She'll want to know what's going on.” First and foremost, he was concerned; the future was still as of yet uncertain, and without a clear leader like Lavellan spearheading recovery efforts, Bull's faith in the Inquisition wasn't terribly high. The advisors were all skilled, but it was Velahari who reined them in and made the pressing decisions; if she disappeared, the Inquisition might dissolve out from under everyone's feet, and that was in no one's best interest. Simultaneously though, Iron Bull couldn't blame her. She was free to do with her life as she would, and if she wanted to spend it chasing after Solas, who was he to stop her? Hell, it was tempting to even _join_ her if she did eventually go.

“ _Shit_.” Why was nothing ever simple?


	5. It's Stupid

One of the many wonders of Thedas Sera would never understand was how the hell the Inquisitor could buy into all the bullshit of elven culture; sure, she'd grown up Dalish, been exposed to all the shit before, but all that time she spent with Solas had only seemed to fortify her beliefs, and frankly, it was annoying. The rogue was currently curled in her bright, little corner of the tavern, back pressed against a shut window as she peered out every so often of the open one; she'd noticed their Inquisitor friend practicing out in the yard before Iron Bull had, though Sera had stayed away: _she_ certainly didn't want to deal with a weepy _anything_.

Still, Sera would never go so far as to say she didn't care, but she sure as fuck didn't understand it either; the whole time she'd watched the easy banter between Velahari and Solas, the soft smiles and understanding nods while they dithered on about _Mythal_ or Coryphe-shit. It certainly didn't help that she didn't understand any of it – not that she really _cared_ to; she was perfectly happy knowing what she did, and fixing the world to return everything back to normal was a perk she was glad to be a part of. After a while, it had almost been sickening to travel with the pair of them – to watch their heads crane just a little closer while one whispered something only the other could hear, or listen to the neverending questions of elven _anything_ Velahari seemed to pull from the very _air_. All of which Solas was only _glad_ to answer with as long-winded and _boring_ an explanation as possible.

Perhaps that was why it was so strange that Solas had disappeared; the two were practically mirror images of the other save for some dangly-bits, and then... _poof_. Even the weirdo up the stairs of the tavern couldn't accomplish such a disappearing act anymore. Iron Bull's shout from the yard drew her attention back to the window, and despite herself, Sera began gnawing on her lips: a nervous habit she'd developed young and had never quite been able to kick even now. She didn't like it. It was all shite: all of it; Solas wasn't the type of guy to just...leave when he was done, was he? Sera prided herself on being a good judge of character despite her...abrasive nature, and something just didn't add up. What he did was as bad as some of the things she'd seen noble pricks do to girls who she'd found crying in the gutters and alleys of Val Royeaux and Denerim, and it pissed Sera off even more because it was happening to someone she...well...someone whose well-being was important.

Her eyes cut a path through the darkness as night settled around Skyhold; the Inquisitor's light, beige clothing was easy to spot, as were Iron Bull's massive shoulders and horns, and after a moment, Sera turned away, her scowl deepening as her arms crossed over her chest. _Shite. It's all_ _ **fucking**_ _shite_. The next time Solas brought his sorry hide back to Skyhold, Sera would lay an arrow through him for all the fucking bullshit he caused – through the foot, maybe, so he couldn't run away again so easily. She fought away the urge to chuckle at the image of the straight-laced, always-head-held-high Solas limping, and promptly felt guilty for thinking that way. Sure, she and Solas were about as opposite as one could find in elves, but they were technically allies, and there was also Velahari to consider, and the bottom line was that the little, elfy mage deserved some happiness after all the shite that had gone down in the past few months.

“C'mon, Boss. I think you earned a drink. Or five.” Sera heard Bull chuckle as he and the Inquisitor approached the tavern door. It took Sera all of half a second to uncross her arms, jump to her feet, and take the steps four at a time to get down just as Bull and Velahari stepped inside. The elf's eyes widened at Sera's antics, and Bull first lifted an eyebrow curiousy before grinning. “A round,” Bull called to the dwarf behind the bar, and before Velahari could respond, Sera and Bull had practically dragged her to the bar: her shoulders stuck firmly between theirs. The ale was bitter but strong, and the three sitting at the bar downed three a piece before things began to become noisy, and a bit hazy.

No doubt it was hardly news to anyone, but Sera...couldn't hold her liquor very well: had attested to it the night Varric had dragged all of them to the tavern and she'd somehow ended up under the table; even while completely conscious and in control of her wits, Sera had very little filter on what she spoke: if people couldn't take her at her word, they didn't deserve to be any friend of hers. “It's stupid, innit? So fucking stupid,” Sera slurred, and Velahari turned to her, eyebrows furrowed inquisitively. “I mean, why _leave_? Makes no sense, does it? Dunno why you ever liked him in the first-”

“ _Sera_.” Velahari's hands had tightened around her pewter tankard, normally-pale knuckles a stark white against dark silver. “Shut _up_.” Green eyes were narrowed dangerously: twin pinpricks of venom Sera could have envisioned would be floating in a vial of some nameless, sinister sorcerer from a Tevinter story; still, Sera didn't take well to authority, to being _told_ what to do, and despite her better judgment, Velahari's warning had sounded more like a challenge than anything, and Sera _never_ backed down from a direct challenge, least of all from someone so _high_ as the blighted Inquisitor.

“ _Why_?” Sera demanded belligerently, eyes narrowing and lips dipping into a scowl. “It's fucking _true_! He's not _here_ , and it's just bloody-fucking _stupid_.” Disdain coated her tone, deep-seeded irritation and dislike finally pouring from her lips: it was only a wonder that she'd been able to keep it inside for so long.

The tavern came to a stand-still when Velahari's chair fell backwards as she stood, fists shaking and sizzling with heretofore unused lightning; the air, however, was charged with the latent electricity, and every eye in the tavern was on the pair. Bull was standing a few paces away with his Chargers, though he'd turned when he heard the commotion. Sera remained sitting, only just realizing when green eyes darkened with righteous fury gleamed maliciously for the first time _ever_ in her direction that she'd fucked up – and she'd fucked up _bad_. Eventually, Velahari clenched her jaw and strode purposefully for the door without so much as a word or a backwards glance, and though Sera was on her feet and turned to follow, Bull had somehow gotten to her before she could move further.

His hand engulfed her entire shoulder, and she scowled up at him; “Let me go!” When she moved to take a step, however, her step faltered and she went down hard on her chair, seemingly realizing only then how drunk she really was. Her stomach churned and surged uncomfortably, and she groaned audibly. “I fucked up, didn't I?” she sighed, not really needing an answer.

“Give her time.”

–

Sera's night after that was about what one might expect; guilt kept her awake a while longer, and a lingering irritation followed that such a thing was keeping her from blissful sleep where she could forget about the hangover she'd have in the morning and the inevitably apology there would be when she could manage to get to the Inquisitor without wanting to vomit. Bull had offered to help her back to her little nook on the second floor, but she'd pulled away with a huff and staggered up the stairs; it was her screw-up, and she deserved to fall if it came to that. Maybe she'd leave some especially good mead for him to find in the near future...

Dark circles made Sera appear ten years older and ten times more miserable when her eyes finally cracked open that next morning, straining against the warm, morning light that filtered in through the windows she'd forgotten to close the blinds around the previous night. Her stomach churned as she forced herself upright, though she forced away the nausea before reaching blindly for a flask of water she kept handy for just such an occasion. It was lukewarm and a little stale from having been forgotten for weeks on end, but it did remove the taste from Sera's mouth, and that was all she cared about at the moment.

Her first instinct was to go directly to Velahari, to stomp into the Inquisitor's ostentatious quarters and say what she had to say, but it was early yet, and for all she knew, the mage was still very much asleep. That left Sera with the incredibly unpleasant task of waiting, and she'd never been patient in the first place. She sat on her hands for a while to get them to stop twitching, but eventually she'd grabbed her bow and let a few arrows loose after closing her door. The feeling, truly, was a liberating one. Now that Coryphe-shit was gone, she could focus on getting things back to normal, but somehow, it still didn't _feel_ like everything was back to normal; her lips pursed and she glared at the door as she lowered her bow, her quiver half-full as a few fletched feathers tapped the back of her shoulder.

It should have been _easy_ : closing the Breach, killing Coryphe-shit, and then bing-bang-boom. She'd be back in Val Royeaux to knock some nobles back down to size before it was time for supper. _Should_ was the operative word. Sera was friends with Velahari, even despite their clashes of opinion, and so long as Solas was MIA and the Inquisition was without any information, well, Sera had a feeling she'd be lingering. In spite of it all, Velahari had made time to track down leads Sera had passed her way from her Friends, and more than that, well, they'd had some good times together, hadn't they? Pranking Josephine's door and Cullen's desk, sitting on the roof of the tavern while giggling and snacking on cookies... Sera couldn't just leave things like this. It was simultaneously frustrating and hilarious, and had Sera been someone else, she'd have laughed at her own stupidity and misfortune.

It wasn't long afterwards that Sera finally stepped out of the tavern and headed for the stairs leading into Skyhold's main structure: her departure borne both of impatience and a desire to set things right, so much as they could be given the circumstances. Varric raised an eyebrow when he saw her step inside, though he didn't impede her path. Her eyes rolled when she walked past the bloody _throne_ for the Herald of Andraste, though it was long behind her as she made her way into the corridor and felt just the vaguest hint of apprehension quicken her pulse. Sera didn't _get_ nervous; nobles were nervous around _her_ , and though Velahari technically wasn't a noble, she may as well have been – she had contacts, had a reputation and notoriety throughout the entire fucking _world_ , a standing army, more money than she likely knew what to do with. But then, she'd not abused her position; she helped people whenever she could, and if someone died, she felt the consequences keenly: Sera had seen that firsthand.

The door was ajar when Sera reached it, and the blonde peered curiously into the room; at first, she didn't even see Velahari, though as she pressed in further, Velahari cleared her throat. “Morning.” The Inquisitor's tone was neutral, uncertain and tentative, and she made no move to step closer or invite Sera in – not that Sera needed the invitation.

“Look,” Sera began without preamble, and she was at least someone mollified to see Velahari didn't look too angry – she looked tired really, and that wasn't something Sera often saw. “Last night, yeah? It was...stupid. I know...well, I just know. I'm no good at this shite, but I'm here, and I'm not leaving – not until his scrawny ass is dragged back to Skyhold.” Her statement was punctuated with a smirk and a devious chuckle, and Velahari smiled a genuine smile despite herself. “But,” Sera pressed onwards, her tone returning to something more serious. “We're...good, yeah?” She looked up at Velahari then, feeling as vulnerable as she might have as a child, though she abruptly pushed those thoughts away – she'd promised herself she'd never think of them again, let alone let herself feel like she had when she'd been helpless.

“We're good.” Velahari assured her, and she stepped closer until she'd even passed Sera by; “Come on. I think we need some levity in Skyhold. Care to help out with that?” Sera grinned a beaming grin and chuckled mischievously, any effects of her hangover somehow melting away under Velahari's warm, sunny expression. 


	6. A Bittersweet Reunion

It was not often that Josephine Montilyet felt helpless; even when the Inquisition had been first created, she'd still had all her old contacts from Antiva and the Imperial Court in Orlais, but such things did little good when the problem she continually attempted to overcome was as illusive as the wind, and as well-versed in evading as Josephine was in finding: if not even more so. After the first week, Josephine had had to concede defeat; nobles and scouts scarcely noticed when a solitary elf moved through an area, let alone ventured close enough to discern whether it had been a wandering Dalish scout or a fleeing refugee or someone else entirely. No, this was the work for Leliana's network of informants, or perhaps even Sera's Friends who saw and reached more than likely anyone in the Inquisition could even begin to guess – save, perhaps, for Leliana.

All reports she'd received concerning the battle with Corypheus ended on a similar note, and though she tried, in small ways, to appear sympathetic without bringing direct attention to the pain, nothing appeared to be helping their elven Inquisitor. The Inquisition's Ambassador had seen less wear as of late, though; Velahari had voluntarily gone down to the tavern with Dorian and Varric, her smile a shade of how bright and vibrant it had been before, though no less as meaningful – Josephine hadn't seen her smile since everything happened, so she was willing to take her small victories where she could.

Even that morning when Josephine had first returned to her study, she'd been simultaneously annoyed and amazed to see a bucket hanging precariously above her door: lying in wait for someone fool enough to walk through. Mercifully, just as she'd paused and began to ponder how to do so without becoming drenched in the process, Cullen strolled up behind her, a golden brow lifted curiously and a report clutched easily in his left hand. “Good morning, Ambassador. Is there something...amiss?” To his recollection, Josephine had never once loitered about in a corridor, specifically one right outside the room she herself frequented.

“Not in the slightest, Commander. Please, after you.” Her smile was bright as ever, though it perhaps curled just slightly at the corners; Cullen's eyes narrowed down at her suspiciously, though he couldn't quite detect what it was that had him on edge – at least, not until he made the mistake of pushing into her chamber and promptly having icy water spill over his fur-lined pauldrons. Her giggles were loud, her arms rounding either side of her stomach, though it was hard-fought to make them go away; for his part, Cullen sputtered and blinked rapidly, arms spread as he'd unconsciously yanked his hand away so the report wasn't drenched and subsequently unreadable.

“You...you knew it was there,” Cullen finally pieced together, his free hand wiping a few rivulets of water from his forehead.

“Indeed I did, Commander. Thank you for saving me the trouble.” She gave him a slight, mocking bow that earned a roll of his eyes and a breathless chuckle despite himself.

“I suppose I'd better get back to my chambers and change. _Again_. If the Inquisitor asks-”

“I will be sure to inform her of your heroics, Commander. Though do be cautious when crossing thresholds.” Cullen gave her a scowl as he stepped past her, though Josephine merely stifled a giggle behind her hand. It took one moment before Cullen was gone from her field of vision, and yet another before she'd gestured for a passing servant to clean the water before someone was unfortunate enough to slip and end up with a broken hip or a sprained ankle. It was an irresponsible prank, certainly, but Josephine hadn't seen one since Sera and Lavellan had first perpetrated them, and that had been...a while ago, if Josephine's memory served. It had been after Adamant, after all the business with Halamshiral, when a bit of levity was perhaps justified, given how well things had been going in the hunt for Corypheus and the assurance that they'd stifled his major goals in the process.

Now, when things were mostly at peace and the world could rest easily if but for a moment, Josephine had expected more – at least, initially. It had torn her heart to shreds to see the Inquisitor so distraught after what should have been an occasion to celebrate, and the feast seemed to do little more than remind her exactly what she'd lost that day, in addition to whatever they and all Thedas had gained. Aside from the obvious way to cheer up their elven leader, however, Josephine had been running rather dry; Leliana gave her daily reports even though hardly anything changed, but she thanked the redhead all the same before retiring to her chambers, all the more drained and concerned for Velahari Lavellan.

In the days since, Josephine had fallen back into the normal routine: reading missives in the morning, greeting visiting dignitaries and saying fond farewells to those leaving Skyhold, and by evening, she would pen elegant replies to the letters from earlier: all neatly folded and signed with care by her hand and sealed with the Inquisition's half-open eye. Come morning once more, all those she'd finished would be gone: taken away by couriers at first light to Val Royeaux, or Denerim, or somewhere north where nobles undoubtedly awaited with bated breath. New stacks always replaced the old, and more than once, Josephine felt a little exasperated; challenges were nice, though this one was only growing larger the more the Inquisition's fame and reputation spread, even if the dire need for them was not.

On top of the stacks once she settled into her chair and inhaled the aroma of her steaming, mug of tea garnished with a slice of lemon was no ordinary missive, however. The seal had been obviously broken: no doubt by Leliana's people when they'd seen the curious message scrawled on the outside; _The True Fate of Clan Lavellan. Just thought you'd be curious, Inquisition._

Horror settled on Josephine's stomach like rancid bile, and the only thing that felt worse was that Velahari had entrusted her with the task of protecting her clan: only for her efforts to implode and result in the death of the entire clan. At the time, it had seemed like a tragic accident: nothing anyone could have anticipated or prevented; now, though...

The parchment fell from her shaking fingertips, and though she wasn't crying, her lips trembled from as of yet unshed sobs. “So you've seen it then.” Leliana's tone was grim, and had Josephine not been accustomed to their bardmaster veritably stepping out of the shadows more often, she would have been noticeably startled. Instead of responding, Josephine instead uncharacteristically leaned forward until her elbows found her desk, her face falling into her hands. “Josie.” Leliana's voice is softer now, warmer, more like the young bard she'd met so long ago in Val Royeaux than the jaded spymaster who lost her Divine back at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Her hand settled uncertainly between Josephine's shoulder-blades, though smoothed a moment later before rubbing soothing circles.

“If it's any consolation, I've dealt with this particular Lord. I didn't think you'd mind more...excessive means this time around. But,” Leliana paused, Josephine eventually looking up to find sharp, blue eyes. “There _is_ a bit of good news. My agents managed to dig up one of the clan member's locations.” Josephine's near panic-attack had long subsided by then, and she even managed a small smile before Leliana slipped a half-sheet of vellum to her across the table, the bardmaster stepping away from Josephine's desk. “I think...it will be good for the Inquisitor to see one of her clan again.”

It took just a moment for Josephine to unfold the vellum and read the scant words scrawled there, in a hurried hand that was clearly not Leliana's – not that Josephine had expected it to be. Of all the people she might have expected to escape the fighting in Wycome, the Keeper might have been the last on the list; no doubt some might have questioned her survival: twisted it to imply she'd saved her own skin while leaving her clan to perish at the hands of the _shemlen_ , though it was a gem of hope that Velahari Lavellan could sorely use at the moment, and Josephine, for one, would certainly not be the first to point any fingers at the likely-wary elf of such an invitation.

The Ambassador spent the better part of her day contacting several nobles and some scouts about the former Keeper's current whereabouts, and even a few days later yielded results. Loranil, the Dalish recruit Velahari had managed to wrangle into the Inquisition from the Exalted Plains, would be the one to approach the woman: a friendly face was less likely to earn a hostile response after all. In the meantime as Josephine awaited a response, things functioned as normal in Skyhold, though perhaps with one notable exception. Velahari was out and about, very nearly back to her old self if Josephine were any judge; or, at least, that's what she desperately wanted to believe. Making up with Sera after a rather disastrous night at the tavern had helped immensely, but it could only go so far, and mend so much, and even now was stretching the Inquisitor's good show.

And, just as Josephine had perhaps pessmistically anticipated, the Inquisitor's good mood took a nosedive; no matter who ventured up to her quarters – be it Dorian with a goodnatured smile and a deck of cards, or Sera with cookies fresh from the kitchens, or Cassandra with news of something that might catch the Inquisitor's attention – Velahari remained: listless, fatigued, and mostly expressionless, save perhaps for the deep, impossible sorrow that almost pained Josephine to see upon glancing once at her eyes. It was with a sigh of her own that Josephine slid into her own chair, her forehead falling to her hands as she fought off the voice that told her not to slouch – a voice that sounded very familiar to a rather rigid older dowager from Val Royeaux who'd passed on only two summers earlier.

It took only a few moments of shuffling through the papers on her desk before she noticed it: a half-folded, discolored piece of parchment that likely at one time had had food on it, judging from the stain in the bottom right corner. _Will arrive with the Keeper Istimaethoriel on the morrow._ The brief letter was unsigned, though Josephine's heart leapt just a little in her chest, her lips pulling into a sincere smile for the very first time that day. After everything that had happened lately, it was high time something went right for a change; still, there were so many things to be taken care of before Loranil arrived with the Keeper, and Josephine set the slim notice to the side before addressing a loitering noblewoman, clad in her finest silks despite how cold Skyhold truly was – she easily pretended not to see the slight shivering the woman poorly attempted to conceal, and instead offered the woman the warmest smile she could offer before gesturing to the chair across her on the other side of the desk.

That night proved a difficult one, for a multitide of reasons; Josephine always found just the slightest bit of difficulty getting to sleep: undoubtedly from all she anticipated doing on the morrow, though it was only exacerbated by the arrival of Velahari's Keeper. She must have tossed and turned for a couple hours at least, and more than once she'd even turned to crawl out of bed and grab a steaming cup of tea to help soothe her to slumber. Once early morning came with biting winds and strands of hoarfrost stretching across her window, though, Josephine stopped the farce and instead angled her legs over the side of the bed, coal-black hair falling in delicate tendrils over her shoulders. For a long moment, anxiety consumed her: loomed like an ominous presence just the edges of her mind, and even her normally-deft fingertips could not quite drive it away this time.

Her breath shuddered out of her lungs, very nearly creating a small, visible cloud of air just past her lips, and with more effort than one might believe, she breathed in deeply before exhaling audibly. The tension from her shoulders melted away, and Josephine managed a small smile before pushing herself from the bed and heading for the small basin of water which was almost too cold to use.

Skyhold was unusually subdued when Josephine appeared in its central chamber; some nobles milled around, gossiping in quiet, weary tones while scouts and spies lurked in the shadows, undoubtedly exchanging information or finding some sort of solace in each other. Varric was nowhere to be seen, and Josephine frowned just a little as her eyes swept over to the fireplace he normally frequented; perhaps it was just too early for him. Her morning routine very rarely ever deviated, and Varric's yawn-laden greeting with a half-hearted wave in the mornings was something she'd come to anticipate.

Things fell back into place as the morning pressed on, and by the time the sun had hit its highest point in the sky, she'd already heard of the elves' arrival which was apparently causing quite a stir in the courtyard. The pair were shown in to Josephine's chamber a little while later, and the ambassador promptly stood from her desk, her smile warm though it was weary at the edges – she hoped this gambit worked and didn't serve to only make things worse for Velahari. “Andaran Atish'an, Keeper Istimaethoriel.” Josephine inclined her head respectfully, and felt no small amount of pride at how the woman's name had rolled off her tongue – she'd practiced for an hour or so nonstop until she'd been satisfied. “Allow me to welcome you to Skyhold.”

If Josephine had ever considered a Dalish elf to be intimidating, this Keeper was the embodiment; she was tall and lithe, taller even than Loranil and Josephine, not unlike a towering sylvanwood with gnarled branches of wind-hardened skin swinging down near her thighs, with a head of ink-black hair that simultaneously looked to be painstakingly combed and left to the will of the wind. Her face was long, eyes deep and suspicious, though there was a certain light and wisdom there that beckoned Josephine: seemed to tacitly permit questions the Keeper was likely trained to answer all her life. “And a massive place it is. I did not expect it to be so, especially when my own was named the leader of this place.” There was approval in her face, in her tone, and Josephine's smile merely widened.

“The Inquisitor has been a peerless leader, if I'm permitted to say. She has shown a grace and wisdom everyone in Thedas should be grateful for.”

“Your flattery is not necessary, Ambassador,” the Keeper replied, her smile wan and her dark, green eyes clearly amused. _But it is appreciated, I think_ , Josephine inclined her head once more at the elf in understanding.

“Now, I think, it is time for a reunion.” The Keeper's expression twisted and turned queerly then; her eyes lightened, her lips tightened, and the heartbreak that settled in the many lines of her face tugged at Josephine's own heartstrings. It must have been some consolation that the Keeper had at least someone left from the clan she failed to protect, and that failure wore on her visibly: like a shroud she would likely carry with her until the day she stopped breathing.

“Yes. I would see Velahari.” Josephine nodded once to Loranil before the young man nodded and gave the women a wide berth. The traipse up the stairs was done so in silence, though Josephine could always hear the curious hum of the Keeper's staff, so infused was it with elven magic. She stomped out the inevitable comparison of the Keeper to Solas as she did so; of all the things she herself might have felt at the apostate's disappearance, she was angry: not at him, specifically, but because of the circumstances, and the despondent Inquisitor he'd left behind.

The door to Velahari's chamber was closed, though it took only a few moments for Josephine to knock and the Inquisitor to bid her enter, even if her tone was lackluster. Instead of strolling inside, though, Josephine merely stepped to the side and gestured for the Keeper to go on: the pair would want their privacy, Josephine was certain, and intruding was not something she wanted to do.

 

* * *

 

Velahari was currently at her desk, red bangs falling into her eyes no matter how many times she attempted to press them behind her ears; there were literal mountains of missives she'd been remiss in not addressing sooner, and though Josephine had offered once before to take care of them, she still had a duty as leader of the Inquisition to respond, even if she scarcely had the energy and vigor these days to do little more than get out of bed. A knock at her chamber door was a welcome distraction, and the Inquisitor set down a particularly convoluted message from an Orlesian noble after bidding whoever knocked to enter. Her hand raked back through her hair, currently tousled and unbound, though it didn't much matter anymore; truth be told, Velahari was uncertain if she preferred the neverending onslaught of tears or the queer emptiness that left her without stamina and drive to do much of anything.

“Da'len.” Green eyes widened at the sound, and there was nothing but disbelief in her expression as she looked up, her lips parting in a quiet gasp. The Keeper peered down at her softly, then curiously, her head tilting slightly as she undoubtedly noticed the lack of vallaslin.

“Keeper.” Velahari was somehow standing when next she cared to notice, though her hands were shaking and the Keeper was shrugging off her staff and crossing the distance between them. “I...I thought you were dead. I thought _all_ the clan was dead.” Keeper Istimaethoriel's expression sobered into a grim line, though when she came closer and her arms lifted, Velahari instinctively curled into them, her own winding around the Keeper's back to rest just below her shoulder-blades.

“I very nearly was, Da'len,” the Keeper whispered, spindly fingertips smoothing crimson hair as Velahari's head settled just below the older woman's jawline. “The shemlen attacked with no provocation, and most were felled before we even knew they were upon us. I did what I could, but we were outnumbered, Da'len. Abelas. I failed you. I failed the _clan_.” Much to Velahari's surprise the keeper's shoulders began to tremble underneath her hands, and if she hadn't been able to smell the salt on the air, she'd have never believed someone like her would have ever allowed herself to cry.

How long had the Keeper carried her sorrow alone? How long had she endured: living with the memory of her own people, her own _family_ dying before her eyes as she helplessly watched? She'd scarcely escaped with her life, and guilt plainly consumed her even now, even after so long after the fact. It made Velahari's stomach churn, and for once, she felt the mentor with the Keeper as the student; “Their deaths aren't your fault, Keeper. Even you couldn't have killed so many humans alone.” No matter how skilled or formidable a woman she was, she was still just that: a woman, with finite power and mortality.

“They were my responsibility.” Their deaths had obviously been torturing her, been replaying themselves in her mind's eye, and Velahari pulled away and looked slighlty upwards into the Keeper's eyes.

“No matter what, Keeper, you can't hold yourself accountable for the actions of others. You did nothing wrong.” It felt ironic and just slightly strange that Velahari was the one to comfort another, least of all a woman she'd considered a friend and almost a maternal figure since she'd been a teenager. “And, since I haven't said it yet, I'm relieved you're alive, and you're all right.” Her smile was genuine even if it was rather dim, and the Keeper found herself smiling wanly despite herself.

“You've gone and matured while I wasn't watching, Da'len. You may not be Keeper, but you keep watch over those here in Skyhold. They are your clan, no matter their stripes or their race.” Her charge had been naïve and idealistic when she'd first been chosen to attend the Conclave, and now... She somehow retained facets of those attributes, but there was a confidence in her gait, a hardness to her posture and the lines of her face that could only come through trial by fire. Velahari's smile deepened, even dared to touch the corners of her eyes, and it was then that the Keeper's expression shifted.

“I do have a question, if I'm permitted by the mighty Inquisitor, vanquisher of magisters and darkspawn and dragons.” There was amusement suffused in the older woman's tone, and Velahari chuckled before nodding her assent, the pair of them finally pulling away. “Your vallaslin. Why is it gone, and how did you come upon a way to remove it?”

The question had the Inquisitor paling, and such a response only garnered more interest from the Keeper who didn't look offended – not yet, though Velahari was concerned. “That...is a very long story, Keeper. The short version is that the vallaslin are not what the Dalish believe them to be, and one of my companions knew of a spell to remove them.” It was clear to the Keeper that Velahari found the particular topic an unsavory one, though it didn't appear to be because she was embarrassed, or ashamed. Her green eyes moved about furtively: never remaining long on any single thing, and Istimaethoriel merely inclined her head in understanding.

“The full explanation, in time, would be appreciated, Da'len. Removing vallaslin, regardless of the method, is not something to be done lightly. I would know what reasoning led you to such a drastic conclusion. But, for now, I think it is time you tell me more of your time with the Inquisition. I've heard only stories repeated and repeated half a hundred times from shems. Please, enlighten me.” The Keeper smiled, and Velahari let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

 


End file.
